Marked
by nemesis1807
Summary: They come from all walks of life, the big and the small, the weak and the powerful. Often the only thing they share is the mark they bear and the interest of the Outsider.
1. The Thief

**I plan this story on being a series of one-shots about those marked by the Outsider, whether its about how they got the mark or what they do with the power. Any input is appreciated.**

Ask anyone in Morley who the greatest thief is and you'll get the same answer: _Him_. No name, no alias, just _him_, spoken in a hushed whisper filled with fear.

I'm quite fond of that. It says that I'm well known enough that everyone immediately knows who is meant, and I'm also not saddled with some ridiculously clichéd name, no doubt containing the word "shadow" or "snake".

Mine was a reputation earned through sweat, tears and blood. Lots of blood, little of it mine. I like to think I've done quite well for the bastard son of a lady's maid.

My life of crime started the moment I could walk. I pocketed whatever I happened to come across in the home of my mother's employer. Small things usually, pieces of silverware, watches, rings. I never got caught, nor was I ever blamed. Who would ever suspect the polite, quiet little boy who helped his mother with her work? No, others always took the blame. The cook, the scullery maid, the seamstress' assistant, all were hauled away screaming that they were innocent, all because a planted item was found, they were at the wrong place at the wrong time, or just because someone thought they looked guilty. I felt so proud at how clever I was as I dumped what I had stolen in the gardens or the street, not ever risking trying to sell them, though I did keep some of the best stuff in a small, silver box with fine engravings (another stolen item), buried in the mansion's grounds in a patch hidden by immaculately trimmed bushes.

Eventually I did get caught when I was twelve, but not by any of the household guards or staff. I had unearthed my box and was admiring my collection, holding up an antique golden coin that shone in the sunlight, when a strong hand grabbed me from behind and pulled me close as a burly arm covered my mouth, muffling my scream.

"What have me here?" A cruel voice hissed in my ear, his breath rancid like rotting meat. "A little thief with a few pilfered baubles. Untested, untrained, but could still be useful. So tell me, little thief, how well do you know the mansion I'm sure you those shiny trinkets came from?"

I latter learned that he was a member of the Rossignols, a gang of criminals who had their fingers in a lot of pots. Prostitution, gambling, extortion, blackmail, and of course, thievery. The man who held me captive was after a specific necklace belonging to the Lady my mother worked for, and he wanted me to get it for him. If I failed and got caught, there would be nothing connecting me to him so he would be free to try a different route. With a knife pressed against my throat it was hard to say no.

It was the first time I had an actual target in mind. Everything stolen before that point had all been crimes of opportunity. The only thing I really remember clearly about that job was the beating of my own heart. Overwhelmingly loud, it seemed to drown out everything else. I was normally always so calm, but my hands shook terribly as I snuck into the master bedroom while the Lady of the house was having her weekly bath, making it impossible to hold steady the thin strips of metal I used as a lockpick. I eventually gave up and settled for breaking the lock on the jewelry box, hardly a subtle job. I stole it and ran, not discovering until much later that my mother had been blamed for the theft, being the one who cleaned that room. I never did find out what happened to her.

The necklace itself was covered in multi-coloured gems, a thick golden chain studded with jewels to the point of gaudiness. It was ugly, far too much, but with all the precious gems it must have been worth a fortune.

Despite its obvious worth, I never once thought of running off with it. Not out of fear or anything like that, but because there are some things that money just can't buy. I wanted to be a Rossignol.

The man laughed in my face when I told him, but he still let me come along after telling me I'd be dead in a gutter by the end of the week. I didn't care. While lowborns could do well in Morley, at least when compared to the other isles, I would have most likely have become a menial servant for some pompous aristocrat had I stayed. To my young mind, one week with the Rossignols was worth more than a lifetime of that.

As it turned out, I lasted for far longer than a week. I wasn't afraid of getting my hands dirty and had a stake in just about everything. I never limited myself to just one thing, branching out into smuggling, blackmail and extortion, but thievery always remained my passion. Nothing was more satisfying than sneaking around unseen, leaving an entire household wondering how someone managed to slip in and out without being seen, no indication that I had ever been there save for a few missing items. Even before I gained my powers I was a shadow in the dark. By the time I was twenty, I was the best thief in the Rossignols, and everyone knew it.

I clawed my way up through any means necessary. Frame jobs, murder, there was no such thing as honor among thieves. This caught the attention of those higher up. That was not a good thing, as I learned when a group of thugs showed up at my door.

The ever so illusive head of the Rossignols, known only as First, saw me as a threat and wanted me gone, permanently. He underestimated me, as did the men he sent. They were loud and cocky, sure their numbers and brute strength would grant them quick victory. How hard could it be to kill one scrawny thief? But you can't kill what you can't find, and I was a master at not being seen. Sneaking past the oafs was easy.

Revenge became my only goal in life. First had gotten paranoid since his rise to power and was quick to dispose of any who's loyalty or motives were in even the slightest doubt, or if they were just too good at what they did. This left him with a lot of angry enemies more than willing to help get rid of him. In truth, it didn't take much effort on my part. First eroded his own support himself with his tyrannical and paranoid ruling. People were jumping at the prospect of a coup. A few poisonings of First's strongest allies and we were ready to go.

Easy and quick, First was killed with no one willing to come to his aid. The power struggle happened immediately after, and a cutthroat named Marius took control. That very night I went to the City Guard and told them exactly where the Rossignol hideout was located.

After a hard night of celebrating the fall of First, the Rossignols were far too drunk to put up much resistance. It was a blood bath, any survivors forced to flee into the night. I never heard from any again and I can only assume they left the island.

Apparently, my decision made me "interesting", whatever that's supposed to mean. One moment I was in the rundown apartment I called home, and the next I was in a place that defies reality, if the void could even be called an actual place.

I never cared much about magic or religion. It never applied to my life. But when the black-eyed Outsider materialized, I was forced to reassess my priorities.

Now, with his black mark imprinted on the back of my hand, I am unstoppable. Who could possibly stand against someone who can command time itself? It makes stealing almost too easy. I briefly considered going without using it, but I quickly dismissed the idea. I wholly believe in using all available resources. Why hold back? And so I find myself casually strolling through a noble's mansion, my surroundings grey and drained of colour from the time stop and the rooms filled with party guests. I never could resist an audience.

I reach the master bedroom and I can't help but be reminded of my first real job. What ever did happen to my mother?

An aristocrat in fine silks stands in the center of the room. I ignore him and head straight for the safe hidden behind a painting. Highborns, I have learned, have no imagination whatsoever. Every safe that leaves the factories on Morley has one of three default combinations, and few ever bother to change it.

I open the safe on the second go, revealing a white, circular, whale bone rune issuing a low, barely audible "song", I grab it, shut the safe and leave.

This is not nearly as fun as it used to be. As I walk through the mansion, I pick random things off the tables and throw them into the air. Busts, drinks, food, and a variety of other objects hang suspended in time.

As I leave, colour seeps back into the world and I hear crashes and shouts from behind me. I don't even crack a smile any more.

It's dawn by the time I make it back to my home. A dingy, dirty building well below my means. I sit on the roof and watch the sun rise as I throw the stolen rune from hand to hand. I've done all there is to do in Morley. Perhaps it was time to move, seek out new challenges. I had heard that they have these machines in Dunwall, walls of light and such, that they use to keep places secure. Those could prove to be satisfying obstacles. Of course, going there wouldn't be a good idea until the plague dies down.

"All that work only to destroy that which you fought to accomplish," the Outsider had said when he had first appeared to me. "Was it because you weren't put in charge? Did you expect another betrayal? Or did you see an opportunity to destroy any competition?"

I answered with my own question.

"You mark people and grant them access to your power. Is it because you cannot interfere with events more directly? Or is it just how you get your kicks?"

The Outsider had smiled at that, an unsettling smile without a hint of warmth, and looked at me as if I was a dog who had learned an amusing trick.

He didn't answer, but I already knew why. He did it for the same reason I steal, for the same reason I do everything that I do.

Because he can.


	2. The Prisoner

**Warning: Contains scenes of messed-upness. Reviews are appreciated.**

She never cried or begged. I am used to pleas and know how to block them out. Instead, she taunted and laughed. It is a cruel, twisted sound that betrays her madness and never fails to set me on edge. That laugh haunts my dreams, echoing from deep inside my slumbering mind until it forces me awake bathed in icy sweat.

I hold no doubt that Jane Forrest is a witch. What I do doubt, however, is my own ability to wring a confession out of her. I will continue to try none the less. All must do their part in the continual struggle against the Outsider's influence.

In a cold basement beneath a Warfare Overseer compound in the city of Dunwall, Jane sits locked into a chair wearing only a torn and dirty shift. Her long, brown hair is matted and greasy. Her body, thin to the point of being skeletal, is covered in bruises and burns. She is missing a finger on her right hand, two from her left, and most of those remaining have had their nails torn out. Despite everything she has endured, her eyes are still bright and undefeated and she smirks as I walk in.

"So what's it gonna be today?" she asks. "A beatin'? Or some more brandin'? Perhaps you'd like to take some more of my toes?"

I don't answer and instead pick up a mallet from a table bearing all the instruments of my work. I bring it down on her hand. Breaking her fingers. She gasps in pain, but it quickly turns into a full bodied laugh, neither forced nor strained. I am glad for the golden mask that hides my face. It would do no good for her to see just how much she unsettles me.

"Switchin' it up? Tha's good. I didn't want to say anythin' but your old stuff was gettin' real boring."

She whispers the last part as if she was sharing some big secret.

I wasn't the first Overseer assigned to Jane. There had been another, but he had been reassigned elsewhere and she had been passed off to me. I am unsure what had originally drew the attention of the order to Jane, and if she was always mad or if it was the torture that had snapped her wits.

"Confess," I growl.

"Make me."

I bring the mallet down once again and hear the finger bones snapping. She doesn't even react this time, just watches me like I'm an insect that had wandered into her sight and she was deciding whether or not to tear my limbs off.

"Confess."

"Try askin' me nice like."

The mallet takes her in the mouth this time. Her head rocks back before slumping forwards. After a moment, she spits out some teeth along with a wad of blood. She looks up at me and grins, revealing all the gaps in her yellowed smile.

"Careful now. No one can admit to nothin' with a broken jaw," she taunts, then laughs once again.

…

Outside in the courtyard, Jane kneels on unyielding stone, chained up in the stocks. She shivers uncontrollably in the freezing night air, her lips beginning to turn blue. I will have to bring her back in soon lest she catches pneumonia and dies.

"This would all be over if you just confessed," I tell her. Torture has yet to make any progress with her, so I've decided to try reasoning and persuasion instead. This is far from my strong suit, however, and I'm not even sure ones such as she _can_ be reasoned with.

"And trade the blisterin' cold for the scorchin' heat o' the flames? I think I'll pass. How 'bout 'stead you let me go and I don't rip your intestines out through your throat and use 'em to skip rope?"

"Is this pitiful existence really worth living? Confess. All do eventually."

"You know, I could really go for some cheese right 'bout now."

The randomness of the comment catches me off guard. Her face is straight and serious, not even a hint that it is just another attempt to mock me.

"Or some Morley apples. Really, anythin' that ain't that grey goo they pass off as food 'round 'ere-"

She suddenly cuts off and her eyes take on a glazed, unfocused look.

"Well 'ello there. Can't say I've seen you 'round 'fore."

There is no one else around, yet Jane speaks to the empty air in front of her as there is a person only she can see.

After a pause, she says in a voice tinged with anger, "In that case, I've a bone to pick with you. I used to be a shopkeeper, a fairly successful one at that, but now 'ere I am chained up outside like some damned dog! All because of some stupid feud between you and the Overseers!"

Another pause.

"Well I've 'ad something of a bad day, so pardon my manners," she says, her voice dripping with sarcasm. "I've got to blame someone, and you're right 'ere, easy to yell at."

"Silence!" I hiss, glancing around nervously. This had to be the influence of the Outsider.

Jane turns to me.

"We are right in the middle of a conversation, and it is very rude to interrupt. I swear, the people these days…" she mutters and rolls her eyes.

A longer moment passes while I scramble to think what I should be doing.

"Oh, how wonderfully poetic!" Jane exclaims and excitement flashes in her eyes. "Now, are you gonna to let me out? No? I'll figure somethin' out."

She is practically vibrating with excitement, her chains rattling slightly with the movement.

Screw it, I think. She can freeze to death for all I care.

I hurry away from the mad prisoner. I would have to remember to send someone out with a music box before I take her back to her cell later, just to be on the safe side. Though it's impossible for any one person to escape from an Overseer compound.

Isn't it?

…

It is far past the time I should have brought Jane back to her cell. She had been outside for most all of the night, and it was now only a few hours before dawn. Maybe I'd be lucky and she'll be dead already. I can't bring myself to care about a confession anymore.

My hound trots by my side. After what I had witnessed, I needed to burn off some energy, so despite the cold of the night I took my hound, a mean bitch with a scarred muzzle, to walk the outer perimeter of the compound where there was little chance I would run into anyone.

When I get to the inner courtyard, my blood turns cold. Jane's not there and the stocks hang open, the release mechanism almost looking as if it had been gnawed upon my countless tiny teeth.

I charge into the main building but falter not far past the entrance. Blood stains the floor and scraps of flesh and clothing are scattered about the hall. With a trembling hand I unsheathe my sword as I recite the seven strictures in my mind to ward off the Outsider's influence. Nothing but magic could have done this.

"There you are! I've been lookin' all over."

I spin around to see Jane. She is now wearing a stolen, black Overseer uniform several sizes too big and a look of immense satisfaction on her face. She gestures to her apparel.

"It is rather chilly in 'ere, and that shift din't protect much. Plus, I find this amusingly ironic, for more than the obvious reason."

As way of reply I sic my hound on her. Annoyance flashes across her features and a black mark on the back of her left hand, something that had never been there before, begins to glow.

Rats, a whole swarm of them, appear seemingly from nowhere. They fall upon the hound, tearing her to pieces as she yelped and whined pitiably.

I turn and run. I don't care where to, as long as it is far away from Jane. Her laughs echo down the corridor as she gives chase. I turn down another hall only to have a horde of rats appear in my path. I run the opposite way. Had I taken a moment to calm down, I might have realized I was being herded. In my panicked state, however, my only thought was to get away from that corrupted and twisted woman.

I eventually reach a dead end. I look around to find myself in the interrogation room, where I had brought Jane so many times before.

"Now this is gonna be fun," says a voice from the doorway.

…

Our positions are reversed now. It is Jane who wields the tools and it is me who sits beaten and bloody in the chair. How does anyone hold out against the pain? How does anyone ever last any length of time before confessing? But the answer is standing across the room in clothes splattered with my blood, running a hand along the different instruments of torture.

They don't, at least not without first losing their sanity.

I had screamed and begged from the very first cut. She had only looked at me and said like a mother scolding a child, "stop your fussin'. I managed to endure for months. At least, I think it was months. One does tend to lose track in a place like this."

Eventually, she got fed up with my noise and removed my tongue.

Now she holds up my Overseer's mask for me to see, though my vision is blurred with the pain.

"See this little scratch 'ere," she asks, pointing to a spot on the cheek. "Barely noticeable, even when you're lookin' for it. But I had your mask memorized. Needed to be absolutely sure I had the right one when I escaped. Of course, that was just a part of my elaborate revenge fantasies at first, just somethin' to keep me occupied. Never thought I'd actually get free, at least 'til he showed up."

She dropped the mask on the floor.

"The funny thing is, I never so much as dabbled in magic before tonight. If it weren't for you lot, I'd still be a simple, mundane shopkeeper. So really, this is all your fault."

She picks up a knife, a small, narrow blade and walks over to me. I flinch back as she grabs me by the chin and tilts my face from side to side, appraising it.

"Now, I've gotten to thinkin'. The burns, the missin' fingers, the eye, someone could look and guess that you were injured in some freak accident. That's not good 'nough fer me. I want everyone who looks on you to know that this was done on purpose."

She gets really close to me until she is sitting in my lap, pinning my head to the back of the chair with her hand. I try to shrink back from her touch, but I can't stop the knife from slicing into my cheek. I am only semiconscious by the time she is done.

Jane smiles down at me. She shows me the mark on her hand, the mark of the Outsider.

"Now we match!" she declares happily, then frowns slightly and cocks her head to the side. "Though yours is a bit crooked… Well, nothin' can be done 'bout that, now. That's what you get fer fidgettin'."

She sets the knife back on the table. Finished with her work, she walks calmly to the room's exit.

"'Til we meet 'gain," she declares with a flourish before leaving my broken form locked in the chair. I hear her laugh at some point down the hall, though I can no longer see her.

I slump forwards, my entire body throbbing with pain. Others eventually find me, just a hair's breadth from death. I wish they had let me go. Maybe then I would be free from that laugh that haunts me everywhere ago, both in my waking and sleeping hours, Perhaps I am the mad one now.

**Next chapter: The Aristocrat**


	3. The Aristocrat

**In response to a review, I will be doing as many of these that I can come up with. Since some of these will take place long before (like this one) or after the events of Dishonored, they would not count towards the eight the Outsider spoke of.**

White gloves of fine leather. Others may have found them odd on such a warm day, but I wear them everywhere and by now they are accepted as just a harmless eccentricity.

Gravel crunches under the carriage wheels as it approaches the Conovan estate. The emerald green grass of the expansive lawn, the sound of the tree branches swaying in the breeze, and the fresh, clean country air is a welcome change from the city of Dunwall where towering buildings cast shadows on all and the stench of peasants and commoners can never be fully escaped.

My wife, Mariam, fans herself as she looks out the carriage window. At thirty five, she looks the same as she did a decade ago, at least to me. Her long, blonde hair is pulled up in a complicated knot under a blue bonnet the same light shade as her dress. Ours had been an arranged marriage to unite our two families. She had raged against the fact, less because she was to wed a man she hardly knew but because she had no control over the decision.

She had made her feelings well known back then, always hostile and uncompromising. I am not sure what she thinks of me now. While her anger has cooled considerably over the years, she remains private and acts somewhat coolly with me. This could mean one of two things: either she still isn't overly fond of me, or, more likely from what I've learned of her, it is her way of retaining her pride. Mariam is hopelessly stubborn and is not one to apologize, through actions or words.

However, I do know of one way to break her mask of indifference.

"The Gladstones are looking rather pale, considering they've just returned from holiday in Serkanos," I say as we reach the end of the drive.

She turns and cranes her neck to look out my window. Lord Gladstone is currently helping his wife out of their own carriage, their skin a pale white against their finery instead of the expected tan. Certainly, nobles couldn't be expected to stand out in the sun all day like some commoner, but it is odd not to have even a slight darkening after a stay in sunny Serkanos.

I can practically see the wheels turning in Mariam's mind. Theories and possibilities flash in her eyes as she regards the couple. Figuring out secrets is what she lives for, and everything is a clue.

"Dibs," she says and opens the carriage doors.

I inwardly cringe at her choice in words. Why does she insist on talking like a peasant, and why did her parents ever let her? Aristocrats are superior and do not say "dibs". I let it slide, however.

"I do believe I saw them first."

"Too late. I called it."

Mariam hops out of the carriage in a rather unladylike fashion and walks over to the Gladstones, not waiting for me to catch up. I climb out after her with a small measure of amusement as she begins talking with the couple. I join them and we make our way into the manor.

Inside, nobles mingle and are clustered around the first floor in groups. The back, glass doors are propped open and some of the gathering is spilled out into the gardens. To stand here one could almost forget about the Morley insurrection and its threat to Gristol. I let the gossip wash over me, keeping an ear put for anything of interest.

"…and she's not been sleeping in a cold bed these last three nights, despite her man being away…"  
"…ask me, they put something in the water, never known a man less able to…"

"…came in and stomped about the place and then had his dinner, went out again and never did look in the cupboard…"

"…and a commoner, no less. He should know better than…"

"…she goes through servants so fast it's a wonder there's any left she hasn't hired before. I think the longest one lasted a month…"

Nothing worth looking into. It's rather disappointing. War is supposed to bring out much more scandalous activity than this. With a sigh I scan the room once more for anything that could prove promising.

I see Mariam, the Gladstones, and Mr. Conovan, the lord of the house, standing together in a group. Mariam swirls the deep red liquid in her wineglass as she laughs at some joke of Conovan's. He puts a hand on her arm and murmurs something else, causing her to laugh even harder.

I bristle and make my way over. It couldn't hurt to check in and see how Mariam's hunt was going. At least that's what I tell myself is the reason why I insert myself between my wife and Conovan.

"Ah, Mr. Stark, I was wondering where you had gotten to," Lord Gladstone says.

"Yes, us and your lovely wife were just having a little discussion. Though I must say that if I were you I wouldn't leave such a beautiful creature all by herself," Conovan adds with a conspiratorial smile.

"I trust Mariam to look after herself."

"Really, Gabriel, do not speak of me as if I am not here," Mariam chastises and lightly slaps my arm.

"Where is Mrs. Conovan?" I ask, trying to change the subject.

"She has not been feeling herself as of late. I had hoped this gathering would entice her to come down, but she prefers to be completely alone in her sitting room. She doesn't even want to be around me."

"That's unfortunate, though I must wonder why she doesn't want such a handsome man like you around," Mariam laughs and smiles slyly.

Perhaps she just has good taste, I think to myself. This whole exchange sickens me. I find a way to politely excuse myself from the conversation. At least I now have a specific target in mind now. We'll see how Mariam looks at Conovan after I dig up all his little secrets.

And hopefully a few big ones as well.

I've always found it funny that servants have almost unrestricted access to every room in the home in which they are employed. How can we trust such low-born blood not to do anything they shouldn't as they clean? Still, it can be useful, especially since servants are all but invisible to their betters.

I walk down a hallway towards the kitchens, servants running to and fro carrying serving trays laden with delicacies (it is a wonder how Conovan managed to get these luxuries during a time of war). Eventually the hall empties for a moment save for me and a petite, brunette servant girl heading back to the kitchens. As she passes, my left hand warms and emits a glow under my glove, and suddenly I see the world through the servant girl's eyes.

Those with a strong will or who are prepared often struggle against possession. This girl, however, had been a servant for most of her life, submission and meekness drilled into her head so completely that I move about wearing her skin with relative ease.

Unnoticed, I ascend the stairs to the second floor. I pass several others, but they recognize the face I borrow and do not question my presence. I quickly scan each room I pass, looking for the study. That is the place most likely to hold the information I seek, and the possession will only last for a finite period. While practice and experience has extended the time from several seconds to a few minutes, I could already feel my hand getting uncomfortably warm as I hold the magic in place.

I open another door, this one leading to a somewhat large room with a thick rug covering the dark, wooden floor, tall bookcases lining the walls, and a decoratively carved desk littered with papers and candles in various stages of use. I enter and shut the door behind me, then immediately head for the desk to riffle through the papers.

Letters, business manifests, invitations, but nothing interesting or implicating. I move on to the drawers. Nothing, nothing, nothing, locked.

I jiggle the last drawer but it refuses to open. Hmm, if I were a key…

I run a hand along the tops of the bookshelves. Only dust up there. Underneath the furniture? Only dust there, too ( what does he pay the servants for?). I flex my hand. It's starting to get painfully hot, and I'm going to have to release the girl soon.

On a hunch, I open the other drawers again. This time, I feel along there bottoms and smile when I find a key stuck to the underside of the topmost one.

I unlock the drawer, revealing a bundle of papers. I scan them over. Interesting… it would seem Conovan has been bad, very, very bad indeed. Execution bad, even.

I take the papers and quickly leave the room. My hand is burning hot. I need to end the possession as soon as possible before I'm thrown out in full view of everyone. Down the stairs, I find a music room recently vacated to guests. I drop the papers, take a step forwards and end the spell.

I feel a flood of relief as my hand cools back down to normal. I scoop up the papers, place them in my inside jacket pocket and exit the room, leaving behind a bewildered servant girl to wonder what had happened and how she got to where she now finds herself.

I make my way back to the main party, only to be stopped by Lord Conovan himself, complete with a false smile and calculating eyes.

"Mr. Stark. I've been looking for you, but you were nowhere to be seen."

"Well here I am," I say curtly, not wanting to draw this out any longer than necessary.

"Straight to the point then. There is something I need to discuss with you, in private."

I don't see any way out of this. Best to get it over with.

"Lead the way."

We walk through the main rooms, passing the other guests, and up the stairs. I find it rather ironic when we enter the study. Conovan goes over to his desk and shuffles through the papers there.

"I do believe you'll be interested in this," he says and picks up a page, bringing it over to me.

I reach out to take it but Conovan's hand snakes out, quick as a whip to grab my left hand and yank the glove off, revealing the black, arcane mark emblazoned on the back of my hand.

"I knew it!" Conovan exclaims and his eyes light up. "There was always something off about you."

Conovan is ecstatic with his discovery, shifting back and forth, unable to keep completely still. At this point I wouldn't be all too surprised if spontaneously breaks out into a little dance. I really hope he doesn't.

"The Overseers would absolutely love to hear about this. No amount of wealth or influence would save you if they found out you consort with the Outsider."

A self-satisfied grin is plastered across his face.

"What's to stop me from just killing you now?" I ask, pulling the glove back on and giving him a level stare, no emotion revealed in my voice or expression.

Conovan smirks, an I-know-so-much-more-than-you look on his face. And here comes the blackmail…

"Rest assured, I have informed several others of my suspicions. If I were to suddenly die here today, they would be sure to take that as proof. Now I'm sure we can come to an arrangement to keep this whole matter quiet."

He is so sure of himself and his plan, truly believing he has me trapped. I burst into laughter.

"What is it you find so amusing?" Conovan asks in annoyance, not appreciating being taken so lightly.

"If the Overseers find out about me, you can be damned sure the Emperor will find out about you. Selling Dunwall's sewer maps to the Morley rebels? And what about that list of key targets? That's treason, Conovan, especially since that information was used in the assignation attempt on the Emperor. A little tattoo all by itself doesn't prove much for certain, and you'll find hard evidence is needed to convict nobility. And even if I burn, at least I'll have the pleasure of seeing your head lopped off first."

He stares at me, mouth opening and closing wordlessly like a fish.

"You have no proof," he finally sputters.

"Don't I? Do these look familiar?"

I pull the bundle of papers from the inside of my jacket. Conovan pales and looks as if he's going to be sick.

"How about a compromise?" I say and put the papers back in my pocket. "I forget you're a traitorous bastard and you forget about my choice in tattoos, and tell all your little friends you were mistaken."

Conovan nods mutely and I turn to leave but stop inside the doorway.

"Oh, and Conovan?"

He looks over at me, utter defeat etched in his features.

"Stay away from my wife."

I slam the door behind me and make my way back to the first floor. The party ends soon after and Mariam and I return to our carriage.

"So how went the Gladstone inquiries?" I ask.

"Oh, that was a complete bust. There was a bit of a communication error and they ended up in Tyvia by mistake. Embarrassing, but nothing to get excited about. But I did manage to uncover some other tidbits…"

Mariam describes in detail all the little secrets she managed to dig up and piece together during the party.

"You've done quite well-"

"Quite well? I've done bloody brilliant."

"-but I think I've found better."

"Is that so?" she says incredulously.

I show her the papers and surprise mixed with disbelief dominates her expression.

"…I've still found more…"

I raise an eyebrow.

"Ok, so you win this round. You won't be so lucky next time."

"Luck had nothing to do with it. So that makes it, what, my thirty nine to your forty one?"

"I'm still winning."

"By two rounds!"

"And don't you forget it."

I smile at her reaction. This has been a game we've played since near the beginning of our marriage, always trying to outmatch the other. Between us we know enough to scandalize half the noble population and deeply embarrass the rest. Not that we'd ever use what we've learned. That would ruin the game.

I know the secrets of the highborn. That one knows mine makes me extremely uncomfortable. Something will have to be done about Conovan before he does anything to endanger me.

Perhaps one of the staff will suddenly go mad and murder their employer. It wouldn't be the first time.


	4. The Courtesan

**Remember: I'm always open to suggestions and ideas**

I very carefully apply the blush. Not very much, mind you. I'm not some painted up street whore trying to hide a scarred and weathered face under layers of makeup. Just enough to make my cheeks look a little rosier.

I study my reflection in the mirror and smile. Perfection. Everyone knows I'm the most beautiful girl at the Golden Cat. The others might sneer and whisper behind my back, but they're just jealous. I get first choice of new clients, the best room, the most expensive clothes. Why should I care whether they like me or not? They are nothing, worthless tramps, not like me.

I run a comb through my thick, sunshine golden locks. Not because I need to but because it gives me an excuse to stare at my reflection for just a moment longer. I am just so… enchanting.

Yes, enchanting is the perfect word to describe me. I mean, I did manage to attract _him_. The man with the coal black eyes. What a handsome fellow he was. Really, it was only natural that I would gain his attention. Who could resist me? Though it was a shame he had left so quickly, just gave me a gift then was gone. But what a gift it is!

I check the back of my left hand. The makeup conceals the mark perfectly. I sigh. If only I could bare it openly, rub it in the faces of all those who had ever looked down on me. It is proof that I am so much more important, so much more special, then they will ever be. If only it weren't for those dreadful Overseers and their fear of any power they couldn't control.

I arrange my hair carefully around my face as gossip from the other girls drifts over to me. Something about the funeral of that old Lord Protector. Corvo something-or-other. I ignore their ceaseless chattering, so much like squeaking rats that never know when to quit. So what if some old man is dead? It doesn't affect me so it isn't important.

Madame DeYoung enters the room and tells us to finish up quickly. A new batch of clients has arrived, City Watchmen freshly done with their shifts. The other girls like to talk about the last Madame and how much of a terror she had been, becoming ever more bitter and cruel as she aged into a wrinkled old woman. I can never understand why they insisted on dredging up the past. Only the present had any relevance.

I sashay down the stairs to the ground floor, putting a hidden invitation in every step and a seductive smile on my face. I spot the group of Watchmen, laughing loudly and leering at the scantily clad girls, drinks already in hand. A few are sitting down and already have girls on their laps, whispering suggestions into their ears.

I activate my mark and my hand turns icy cold. My vision blurs and reveals the world in dull, dark colours while people and objects become bright with their own inner light. I quickly scan the men.

Never take anyone who carries a concealed weapon. Obviously worn for all to see is usually fine, nothing more than a statement of authority and power. Concealed meant the weapon had a bloody purpose, that he intended to use it.

Those with bloated purses were, of course, preferred. They weren't going to try and cheat you, and they were much more likely to leave a large tip. Also, they don't notice if a coin or two mysteriously vanishes.

I choose a man with sandy blond hair and moss green eyes, nothing special but also not horrible to look at either. He isn't too far gone yet, which is good. The drunk tend to get rowdy and out of hand.

I go over and work my charms. A look and a smile is often all I ever have to do to attract anyone's lusts. But he is more resistant and keeps glancing around the room, as if waiting for someone. I feel a flash of annoyance. Who in their right mind would ever want someone else, anyone else, over me? Just look at me! I'm absolute perfection!

And then Tobias, all made up and perfumed, struts into the room. The sandy haired man immediately smiles, disengages himself from me, and goes over. Ah. That explains a lot. Tobias winks at me before disappearing up the stairs.

All the other men are already gone by now, claimed by one girl or another and taken to one of the private rooms. It looks like I have some time to myself for the moment.

I am just about to leave when Madame DeYoung's voice stops me.

"Ah, Myra. Just the girl I was looking for. I trust that you will find that she meets all of your expectations?"

I turn to see the Madame leading a thin, gaunt man with beady eyes and greasy, balck hair. Really, he looks not to have taken a bath in months. The look he gives me makes me nauseas, but I push the feeling down and plaster on a fake smile.

"She'll do," he says in a wheezy voice.

Ugh. Madame DeYoung gives me a pitying look as I take him upstairs, the stuck up bitch. I know she's secretly proud of herself. She's just as jealous of me as all the other girls.

Before I enter the door leading to me designated room, I think to activate my mark once again. The knife hidden in his coat jumps out at me. Shit.

There is nothing I can do about it now. I can only hope nothing comes of it, but be on my guard in case he tries anything.

It has been a long time since I truly cared what anyone did to me, as long as it left no visible mark. I have become a master at disconnecting myself from my body, feeling nothing at all. I go through the motions of pretending, acting like I enjoy what is happening with fake cries of ecstasy. The whole time, however, my mind constantly turns to the hidden knife. The coat had been discarded to the side, but he still had it within easy reach.

And so I am unsurprised when he makes a grab for it.

I have no idea what he is planning, but I know it cannot be good. Some people enjoy beating whores, for one reason or another. The Golden Cat offers some protection to its workers, throwing out anyone who would dare harm the girls. But that would be little comfort to me if I end up bleeding out on the floor.

I grab on to his arm with both my hands and yank it down with all the strength I could muster. He snarls and slaps me aside easily. I jump onto his back as he fishes out the knife and rake my nails across his face.

"You bitch!" he yells and reaches back to grab me by my arm.

He is stronger than he looks and manages to pull me off over his shoulder, leaving bloody furrows where my nails dig into his skin. There is a brief struggle as we fight for the knife. But I am a courtesan, not a fighter in any way, so he quickly gains control of the weapon and slashes it across my face.

I scream at the sudden pain, a line of fire running from my left temple across to the bottom of my right cheek. I stumble back with hands pressed against my face, feeling blood trickle from between my fingers.

He advances once again, a smug smile on his face and murder in his eyes. I do the only thing I can and bring up my foot between his legs. He doubles over and drops the knife, the edge coated with my blood.

Without stopping to think about what I am doing, I snatch up the weapon and bring it around in my own attack. The knife glides smoothly across his throat, a surface cut only. The man falls back in surprise and I jump onto his chest, slashing deeper. I feel the blade hit bone this time, and blood pours from the wound.

After a moment, I get up and back away from the body. The knife falls from my fingers, my whole body numb. The enormity of the situation crashes over me and I rush over to a mirror.

My face… once a great source of pride, now a bloodied mess. No amount of time would erase the wound he had given me. I was now scarred for life.

With a cry of rage, I kick his lifeless body over and over again, angry tears spilling from my eyes and stinging the cut.

I can't stay here. I had killed someone, and that would earn me a one-way trip to Coldridge Prison. Even if people believed it was done in self defense, the Golden Cat had no use for a scarred courtesan.

This was a client room, not where any of the girls actually resided. I couldn't risk going out to get my own things, so I gather up what I can. Anything that looks remotely valuable, that could be sold quickly.

I wipe the blood off me as best I can, then use the bed sheet as a makeshift pack. After a moments consideration, I pick up the knife and wipe the blood from the blade. I would need some protection.

I slip out the window and onto the outside balcony. I use the trellis to climb down to the ground. I make my way to the exit, hiding behind plants and bushes along the way. The VIP door would have been quicker, but I would have had to pass by too many rooms, too many people who would start to ask questions. The Outsider's gift is invaluable right now, allowing me to see people through solid objects and arrive at the exit without being seen.

I don't have a real plan as I make it out into the streets. I have no idea where I could go, who would help me. What was I supposed to do? How would I support myself when the money I make from selling these pilfered trinkets runs out? But trying to guess the future, much like thinking about the past, gets you nowhere. Only the present is important, and for now I am alive.


	5. The Orphan

**0000000000000000000Zero00000: My plan is to give each person only one power, more to make them all unique from each other than anything else. I didn't want my characters to all blend into each other by accident.**

The others call me Oddball. I ain't real sure why. They say its 'cause I talk 'bout weird stuff. I dunno, but it's a better name then some that the other kids got stuck with.

There's 'bout twenty of us, all orphans 'cept for Mouse, Pitts an' Dollgirl. Mouse and Pitts had mean parents an' even meaner brothers, so they 'cided to try their luck on the streets. Dollgirl don't talk 'bout her past much, but we can all hear her cryin' in her sleep.

We all look out for each other as best we can, but it's gettin' harder. Rats, weepers, the Watch, other gangs, plague, hunger. Lot o' things out there lookin' to hurt us. Most days halk of us go out to look fer food while the rest watch over the abandoned apartment we all sleep in. Gotta be careful no one else stumbles in an' tries to take it from us.

I'm almost always out scavin' for food. I'm small an' quick, an' Oakland, the oldest of us at fifteen an' the unofficial leader, says I have a knack for findin' stuff. Me, him an' four others form a team an' head out together, lookin' fer food stashes people made 'fore the plague got 'em, or, if we're lucky, fer stray dogs or cats. If we get real desperate we cook up rats, but that's real risky.

We make our way down the narrow, dark street, me, Oakland, Mouse, Pitts, Twist an' Ghost, pickin' through the trash thrown 'bout and ready to scatter at the first sign o' trouble. There's lot o' abandoned places 'round 'ere, the people fled or rounded up an' taken to the Flooded District. Lots o' good stuff got left behind, if you can get to it. Staircases an' doorways are often boarded up, usually to keep people out but sometimes to keep somthin' in. More than once we've broke into a barred room only to run from a weeper inside. That's how we lost Pete.

We're not havin' much luck today. Members of Slackjaw's gang are roamin' the streets, shakin' people down an' gettin' in fights with the Watch. They usually ignore kids like us in ragged, dirty clothes with scrawny frames from so little food, but you can never be too careful. 'Specially with Oakland, who's old 'nough now that they might try pressin' him to join.

So when we hear a large group comin' down the street, we cram together into the first floor of an abandoned buildin' an' wait fer 'em to pass.

"Why even bother tryin' to get into Granny Rags' place?" I hear one say. "It's not like she'd have anythin' worth takin'. She picks through trash fer a livin'!"

"She's been lookin' up an' down the shore fer years. She must have found somthin' valuable by now."

We wait fer their footsteps to disappear far down the street.

"They're stupid to try anythin' with Granny Rags," I say when we're sure they're gone. "She's a witch and she drinks human blood!"

"Don't be an idiot, Oddball," Oakland tells me. "She's just a crazy old woman."

The others nod in agreement. If Oakland says it, then it has to be true. Simple as that. I hesitate, then shake my head.

"She's a witch who consorts with the Outsider and traded her sight so she'd live forever! My big sister used to tell me stories 'fore she died, an' Tana was twenty an' knew everythin'. How else would Granny Rags have lived so long?"

"If she is a witch, why haven't the Overseers got her yet?" Oakland asked with a smirk, amused by the beliefs of a younger child.

"'Cause she's real powerful and they're scared of her."

"Then prove it. Sneak into her house and find proof that she's a witch."

"I can't do that! What if she catches me then cooks me up in a big pot!"

"You scared, Oddball? You just a little, craven chicken?"

"I ain't no chicken!"

"Then prove it."

"I will!"

I wish I could take my words back the instant I say 'em. I don't wanna go anywhere near Granny Rags, but I don't want people to call me a coward, either, an' I said I would. They'd never let me hear the end of it, an' soon everyone would hear 'bout it, an' then I'd be called a chicken fer the rest o' my life!

With a brave face on, I leave our hidin' spot and march down the street. I hear the others shuffle 'round and come after me, but I don't look back. Gotta make 'em think I ain't scared at all... 'cause I'm not.

I stop when I reach Granny Rags place, a tall, rundown, three storey buildin' in desperate need of repair. Attached to the second floor is a rickety, metal balcony that looks set to fall off any second now. What did Tana used to call it? 'Dilapidated'. Yeah, that's right, 'cept I'm not allowed to use big words like that anymore 'cause Oakland cuffs me an' calls me posh, askin' if I think I'm better than the rest 'cause I've got a big vocabulary. 'Vocabulary' is 'nother word I can't say anymore.

"Go on," Oakland says and gives me a shove towards the buildin'.

"I ain't gonna just walk in the front door! Gemme a minute to think."

"That's your problem, Oddball. You think too much, not 'nough doin'."

I shoot him a glare and walk over to the side o' the buildin'. Crates 'n stuff are stcked there (nothin' in 'em though. I've checked 'fore), high 'nough fer me me to climb up an', with a little jump, grab onto the balcony. I'm real good at climbin', been doin' since 'fore I can remember, so I pull myself up easy.

It looks even worse close up, all rusted with screws comin' loose. It creaks when I climb over the railing and step on, but it holds my weight. I carefully make my way over to the splintered doorframe and see... a boat? Well, at least a small one, propped upside down an' takin' up most o' the room. I skirt 'round it and go deeper into the house, seein' nothin' but useless junk not even fit fer sellin'.

The stairs are rotten with peelin' paint, groanin' under my weigth but still holdin'. The first floor is in a sorry state, garbage and junk thrown everywhere and mold growin' on the walls. I find what looks to be a kitchen an', surprisingly, find no human bones or bottles o' blood. Huh. Maybe she's the type o' witch that don't eat people? Or maybe she keeps 'em somewhere else, dumps 'em in the river when she's done. Yeah, bet that's it. Still, I find a few cans of food, the labels worn and faded but the seals are still tight so they're good to eat. I take 'em with me and start to search the rest o' the house, but stop when I hear a noise from up the stairs, the sound of feet on a wooden floor.

"I think the little birdies are sad today," comes the scratchy voice of an old woman.

I freeze. When'd she get up there? I run fer the door, only to find it locked. More noise from upstairs.

"Is that my little birdies down there? Come to Granny Rags..."

I find a side door an' run out into a small yard, but it's surrounded by the tall walls of buildins with no way out. There's this... thing here, a shrine I think. Maybe I can hide behind it.

I run over and see a small object made o' bone with an odd mark placed on the shrine. It makes the hair on the back o' my neck stand up an' I can hear a faint whisperin' comin' from it, like an eerie song. Oakland wanted proof, so let's hope I live to show him.

I pick it up, but suddenly the world turns grey and completely still. There's a burnin' itch on the back o' my hand an' a glowin' mark, like the one on the bone, appears.

"Ah, and so we-"

I whip 'round at the sound o' the calm, slightly arrogant voice. A pale man, made to look even whiter with his hair an' depthless eyes both as black as the void, floats there off the ground with his arms crossed.

Before he can finish, I scream, chuck a can o' food at him, and run.

The world snaps back into colour as I make it back through the door an' into the house, screamin' my head off the whole way. I scramble up the stairs an' make a run fer the balcony, but a hand grabs the collar of my patchy coat, stoppin' me dead.

"What's this? What should we do, little birdies?"

I twist 'round to see the wrinkled ol' face o' Granny Rags, her cloudy, sightless eyes boring into mine.

"Mnn, if I was a birdie, I'd want to eat that. Yes I would, indeed."

I struggle and kick, tryin' to break free. Fer such an old woman, she sure is strong. Then again, she is a witch.

Suddenly, the mark on my hand light's up and glows like a little star. The room seems to whip past me in a blur of blue, wrenchin' my arms back as I'm yanked free o' the coat.

My waist hits the railin' o' the balcony as the blur stops. My upper body is still movin' forwards, an' I topple over the side, landin' on my back on the ground below. The breath is knocked outta me, leavin' me dazed.

"Oddball! You all right?"

"Run!" I yell and scramble to my feet after I've recovered, the bone still gripped in my hand.

We don't stop till we reach the apartment we call home. There, I show everyone the bone I found (though it's stopped makin' that sound now) an' tell 'em what I saw, addin' in a few bits as I went.

"...There was bones everywhere, some small like they was from animals, but others looked human..."

"...She don't just drink blood, she bathes in it. Had a whole tub full o' the stuff..."

"...I had to pick up a knife an' fight her off. I stabbed it in her chest 'fore I jumped, but she just pulled it out like it was nothin'..."

"...Well o' course I was screamin', but not 'cause I was scared. She don't like loud noises, hurts her ears an' makes her run back..."

When all the others get back I tell the story 'gain, addin' in even more stuff like how I rescued a little girl 'bout to get eatin' and how she escaped out the cellar door an' that's why no one else saw her. Everyone is real impressed, even givin' me an extra share of the food.

"Heroes need to eat," Dollgirl says as I swallow it down.

I don't tell anyone 'bout the mark, now inky black on my hand, or how I escaped when Granny Rags grabbed me. When the sun sets an' we all curl together like a pack o' puppies fer warmth, I'm too busy thinkin' everythin' over to sleep. I get up an' go over to the window to take a closer look at the mark usin' the moonlight.

My hands are dirty, covered in dust n' mud, so it's covered all right. It'll be easy with a little extra effort to keep it that way. But what if it starts to glow 'gain? People would see it an' the Overseers would find out an' burn me!

I could try findin' some gloves, maybe wrap it up with some like I'm hurt if I can't find any. But what 'bout later on? I don't think I'd be able to hide it forever, an' the Overseers don't care if you got magic by accident or not, they'll kill you anyway. I'm gonna need some sort of protection...

Who am I kiddin'? I'm just a stupid street kid with nothin' to keep the Overseers from comin'. The best future I can hope fer would to be a thug in some gang, but even thats unlucky with me bein' so small.

Wait a minute. This... mark makes me special, useful. I can do somethin' no one else can. I was in one place an' then another in the blink o' an eye. The gangs would want someone who could do that, maybe make me into some sort of special spy. Yes! I like the sound o' that! Oddball the spy, goin' 'round uncoverin' plots an' fightin' the City Watch with a cool codename. With lots o' explosions, too. Can't be a cool spy if lots o' stuff don't blow up.

The bigger gangs, like Slackjaw's, have a lot o' power. If I joined, made myself useful an' then revealed my magic later on, o' course they would want to protect me an' my gift! What else would they do? I remember Tana once called Slackjaw a "business man". I'm not quite sure what that's supposed to mean, but I think it means he'll do anythin' if it gets him money, like keep someone from the Overseers if he can use 'em. I'll just join him when I'm older an' I'll be all set!

Now with a plan, I go back with the others to sleep. Now I just gotta wait till I'm old 'nough. I'm nine now, so I've got a few years to wait. More time to practice, I guess.


	6. The Warrior

**My apologies for how long it took me to put up this chapter. In truth, I've run out of ideas and unless I'm suddenly struck with inspiration, this will be the last chapter of Marked. But this is not the end of my characters, and in my upcoming story to be entitled ****The End Of Us All****, I will be continuing the story of four characters from Marked. One shall be the Thief, and the rest will be revealed when the story is posted.**

When I was a little girl growing up in Yaro on the island of Tyvia, I was never afraid of the dark. This was not because I didn't believe in monsters hiding in the shadows, but because I believed that if they existed, than all other types of magic must exist as well. Therefore, I would have magic to fight them off. Not exactly the most flawless logic, but what can you expect from a small child?

I can remember being so excited at the prospect of becoming special, unique, important, that I would sit up in my small bed made up of a straw stuffed matress on a rickety wooden frame, drape the threadbare blanket around my shoulders and stare off into the dark so oppresive and complete, and wait for the monsters to come. I figured that as soon as they appeared my amazing new powers would sprout, and I was ready to face anything to get them. Again, very flawed logic, but it did help ensure that I never was afraid.

Eventually I grew up and left such fantasies behind. No longer did thoughts of slaying demons and fighting back evil consume my mind, but rather every day worries of where would I get the money for this month's rent or how dangerous it was becoming to walk the streets of the city alone.

I married at the age of seventeen, as was common, to the son of shoemaker. It was considered a step up for me being the daughter of a poor fisherman, and I heard several cruel jokes about how Faren, my betrothed, had to settle because no one better would have him. Then they would all laugh at both his and my expense.

When I had first been introduced to Faren and told that our marriage had been aranged, I too thought he was ugly and slow. I was no prize either, shoulders to broad and brawny, built more like a man than a woman some had said, but that had meant nothing to me then. I was still a young girl dreaming of riding off into the sunset with her dashing prince. I was bitter and rude, impossible to deal with it, and looking back I am ashamed of my actions.

In time, however, I came to look past such surface qualites and truly loved my husband. Others may have thought that his eyes were too far apart, his nose was too big or his teeth weren't straight enough, but it no longer mattered to me. He was caring, he was kind, he was patient, he listened when I talked, took an interest in my interest, always did his best and was smart in his own way. Faren was the best man I have ever met and I wish I could have spent the rest of my life with him.

The happiest day of my life was the day when our son was born, my little Erik. He was such a happy and healthy baby, the joy of our lives. For three short years we were happy despite our less than wealthy status, but then came the worst day of my life when I learned that the real monsters are men and, at that time, I had no power to defeat them.

As much as I loved my husband, he had one flaw that quite literaly was the death of him. He gambled despite my warnings and heart felt pleas, burying our family in debt. This only fueled his addiction as he gambled away everything in his quest to win it back. Even in my own home I was terrified that enforcers would come calling, demanding money we didn't have and take our blood as payment instead.

Quite ironically, when the thugs showed up at our door, it was not because they were looking for our money. In the gambling dens in Yaro's underworld, the only thing worse than whelching on a debt was to be caught cheating. They dragged his beaten and bloody form back to our home, barred the doors and set the place aflame with us inside.

Smoke filled my lungs and stung my eyes. I tried so hard to save Faren, I really did, but he was too heavy and already unconscious from the earlier punches and blows. I couldn't move him no matter how hard I tried. I had Erik to think about, so I had no choice but to leave him behind no matter how much it hurt.

In the cold, harsh climate of Tyvia, windows are a rarity in dwellings so no easy escape there. But the cold did encourage buildings built partially below ground so I ran down the hatch to the cellar with Erik in my arms. The cellar door leading outside was also barred, but huddled in the doorway we were safe from the flames above, consuming the wooden walls but unable to feed upon the room made of packed dirt, and the cracks between the wooden boards of the door let in enough fresh air that I survived, but the same could not be said for my son.

He had breathed in too much smoke, they had said. It was a miracle that I had survived, they had exclaimed. But what kind of miracle was this? I was left completely alone, my beloved son and dear husband gone, all my belongings were destroyed, I had no way to support myself and I had no way of knowing if those thugs would be back to finish the job. No, it would have been better had I died alongside my family.

An empty husk of my former self, I left the shores of Tyvia on the first ship using the money gained from selling my wedding ring. There was nothing left for me.

For ten years I have wandered. I have seen so much of the Isles, even set foot on the continent beyond, a truly amazing full of untold wonders and even more dangers.

Now, as I tromp down the gangplank to the crowded docks of Yaro, I'm struck with a sudden question: What makes a place a home? After a decade away from the shores of Tyvia, can it still be considered my home? Or is it simply a frozen island filled with bitter memories and past regrets?

Walking through the streets of the city I once knew inside and out, I am struck by a feeling. It is the same feeling I had on the beaches of Serkonos, in the Festival of Churners on Morley, in the factories of Gristol. Isolation, loneliness, unbelonging, foreigness. I am a stranger here now. After all this time, the Siv from Yaro is dead and gone, and in her place is the Siv from Nowhere.

So many changes have happened, and not just to the city. When I had first left, I was a simple wife working as a launder to earn some extra money. Now, I am a hardened mercenary, carving out a reputation for myself. My brawny figure finally worked for me, and though I was looked down upon for being a woman, dead man can't exactly speak out against me. Beat down enough lowlife scum and prove just how tough you are and people will take you seriously regardless of your gender. Blood become my currency, starting out as a hired thug until I gained enough experience to work as a bodyguard for minor nobles or wealthy merchants, and then I signed on as an armed escort for an expedition and my life changed once again.

The poor quarter. Covered in a layer of dirt with ragtag groups of children in ripped clothing roaming the streets. It is the same in every city, the less fortunate all crammed into one area to keep them out of the sight of their betters. The beggars and pickpockets, conmen and thieves keep their distance, less becaue they are afraid of me and more because they are afraid of the claymore on my back. Not the best weapon, crude but effective. I didn't buy it to look pretty but to protect my life, and the same went for the heavy iron armor.

It isn't long before I am stopped by a band of rough looking men armed with notched swords and rusted cudgels. I've been through this all before whenever I come to a new city. Everone thinks the woman playing at being a warrior is an easy mark for a shakedown, 'cause women can't possibly be good at anything other than cooking and cleaning. No way they can actually fight. Knock out some teeth, crack a few skulls and that idea usually fades pretty quick.

The usual speech. "What do you think you're doing her missy, blah blah blah, street belongs to us, blah blah blah, pay the toll, blah blah blah."

I don't even bother drawing my weapon. A quick punch to the leader's head before they can react, sweep his feet out from under him then plant a foot on his back.

There's always one who presses the fight, doesn't know when to quit. A man with light blonde hair raises a sword to attack. As he brings it down, my hand darts out to grab his hand and squeeze, breaking his fingers. The sword clatters to the ground.

"Now if we've got all that business out of the way," I say cooly, "I need to speak with Stengar."

I release the man's hand and he retreats to the back of the group, nursing his broken fingers and looking at me darkly. The man on the ground tries to squirm out from under my foot and snarls at me.

"Le'me up you little bitch!"

"How do you know 'bout Stengar?" another asks, seemingly unconcerned about his companion.

"Lucieno sent me. It would seem the last shipment your pathetic excuse of a gang sent out was a little light."

This is a blatant lie. If Lucieno even suspected someone was trying to cheat him, that someone would be torn limb from limb. Had a light shipment arrived in Serkonos, he would have sent a small army of his men to burn the Stengar's operation to the ground, not just one person to give a stern warning. Everyone knows this, but I'm banking on everyone's fear of Lucieno keeping them from sending away a representative.

It works. A flicker of fear appears in the man's eyes and even the one under my foot stills.

"Now, are you going to take me to him or do I have to beat his location out of you?"

Stupid thugs, large in muscle, small in mind, so easy to manipulate. They take me straight to an old warehouse near a private dock, the chill air carrying the overpowering stench of fish. The criminal underground is so much more... cultured back in Serkonos where I started my career as hired muscle after leaving the factories of Gristol behind me. There is technically no slavery in the Isles, but with the horrid conditions, measly pay and lack of options, there may as well have been. Cultured is not a word often associated with crime, but things are organized there, structured, and you can be sure there isn't any gang bosses using cold, fish smelling warehouses as bases back there.

I am led to an office in the back, taking note of the number and placement of all the guards. My chances of getting out alive aren't very high, but I plan on fighting until my last breath. For Faren. For Erik.

I wait outside the room while one of the thugs goes in, speaks to Stengar for a moment then comes back out and waves me in. The office is sparten, the walls free of any decoration and the worn desk unladen of any papers. The only other items in the room is a shoddy looking chair and a multitude of empty wine bottles scattered about. Really, it looks like the desk is only there for looks. I highly doubt any work gets done in here.

Stengar stands behind the desk in a rumpled blue coat spotted with wine stains. His black hair shot through with grey is messy almost like he had just been sleeping and his light blue eyes are bloodshot. He reeks of alcohol and I can't help but think that if I really had been sent by Lucieno I would immediately recomend disposing of this drunken disgrace for someone more reliable and less likely to pass out on a moment's notice.

Just seeing this man fills me with a burning hatred and blinding furry. Revenge is close now and my hands are shaking. Maybe when all of this is finally over my dreams will be free of scorching flames and the acrid smell of smoke.

"So, what's this issue we seem-"

My left hand glows blue, the light spilling out from beneath my iron gauntlet. I thrust it forwards towards Stengar, spreading my fingers wide. An invisible force, like a massive blast of wind, shatters the desk into splinters and Stengar is sent flying back into the wall. I hear the distinct sound of his ribs snapping and the back of his head slams against wooden planks with a sharp crack. His body falls to the ground like a discarded doll, his lifeless eyes staring back at me.

A quick death is too good for him after what he has done, after the orders he has given. The urge to draw it out, make him feel every ounce of pain I have suffered through after he had my family killed, was strong. But I can't let pain and misery be how I honour their memory. A quick end would have to do.

The door slams open and in runs two of Stengar's men, drawn in by the noise. Another blast sends them back, though not as strong as before. It will take time before I can summon that kind of power again.

The expedition to the continent had been... enlightening. I had been unsure on whether to take the job or not, having heard all the rumors about the place. But then again, what had I had to lose? My life was all I had left since the night of the fire, and it was not something I valued all too highly. A party of twenty had entered the hot and humid jungle. One had returned, half dead and incoherant, but possessing a wonderful gift. Ten years after the monsters appeared, I finally got the power to fight them.

The floor of the warehouse ran red with blood. My claymore cut down many, my magic sent more flying. With their boss dead and, more importantly, no one to pay them for their efforts, the rest fled. You can't just shove a weapon into someone's hands and expect them to instantly become a veteran warrior. Considering idiotic thugs don't have a training plan, they aren't all that tough opponents.

What a shoddy operation. Serkonos is so much better.

I step out of the warehouse into the cold, Tyvian air. How horrible it was to be back home. Friends of Stengar would be sure to come looking for me. 'Friends' would be a generous term, I suppose. More like 'business partners'. Most would prefer to shake my hand but would still try to have me killed. Letting the one who killed a high ranking criminal walk would be bad for their reputation. And those unnconected to Stengar will try to kill me so they can boast about how they took down someone able to destroy a whole a base single handedly.

So, I have officially painted a giant target on my back and now everyone would be coming for me. My chances of survival have just dropped considerably. That's fine.

Beating the odds is kinda what I do.


End file.
